


The Radicals

by Dark_Sinestra



Series: DS9: Sub-Prime [15]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Friendship, Implied Violence, Infection, Infidelity, Intimacy, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 11:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16474814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Sinestra/pseuds/Dark_Sinestra
Summary: Shortly after Garak is faced with the prospect of co-existing on the station with the daughter of his hated enemy, Gul Dukat, everyone is given much more to worry about. Quark's Bar is rocked from within and without, and Deep Space Nine is thrust directly into the heart of a contentious labor dispute. Lines are drawn, tempers flare, and at least one station denizen nearly pays with his life.





	The Radicals

**Part I**  
   
_Julian  
Garak's Quarters_  
   
“You'll never guess who was on the station today,” Julian said as he reached for a slice of bread from the shared platter at the center of the table between him and Garak.  
   
“Gul Dukat,” Garak said with a gleam in his eyes that even after all this time of knowing him gave Julian pause.  
   
“Yes,” the doctor said, a little disappointed that his news apparently wasn't all that newsworthy to the tailor. “How did you know? He wasn't here long enough...”  
   
“I've been keeping tabs on the gul,” Garak replied. There was that look again. It seemed centered on that very particular word, “gul.”  
   
It made sense now. Garak had been particularly offended when he learned of Dukat's promotion to Legate. Naturally, he was taking great satisfaction in his fall. He studied the tailor while he chewed his bread. Was there more to it than that? Had Garak had some clandestine hand in the situation? He wouldn't doubt it. He knew better than to ask. “So then you know that Major Kira left with him, I assume?”  
   
Garak nodded, chewing his food and swallowing before speaking. “I wouldn't worry about the major,” he said. “She knows how to handle him.”  
   
“In part thanks to you,” Julian said, smiling slightly. He would never tell Garak, but he was pleased that the Cardassian and his Bajoran colleague seemed to have come to an understanding of sorts. He had seen them be almost cordial on more than one occasion after Bareil's funeral. “Since my interesting news isn't so interesting after all, what about you? Anything noteworthy happen today?”  
   
“I don't know yet,” the tailor said. “Often the true significance of events fails to reveal itself until some time down the line.” He paused and wiped his mouth, a mischievous twinkle in blue eyes.  
   
Julian shook his head and smiled wider. Since Garak's disturbing instance of “Starfleet honesty” in the Infirmary a couple of weeks before and their uncomfortable confrontation later that day, the tailor had been back to his old self, more his old self than the doctor could recall in a very long time. He didn't delve too deeply into the facade. He didn't want to know how much of it was for his benefit, for Garak's, or for an unknown purpose at which he couldn't begin to guess. Nor did he want to know how much of it was real. Just as the fiction of the holosuite had provided distraction and stress relief, this fiction of theirs did much the same, at least when he was actually in the man's presence.  
   
“You're not wolfing your food like a ravenous beast,” Garak observed lightly. “Are you ill?”  
   
“No,” he said, automatically taking another bite at the prompting. “I was just thinking.”  
   
“That's one of the things I actually like about your guttural language,” Garak said. “The way that so many of your words have layered meanings. For example, I could say at this moment that you are ruminating, and it would apply to your food as much as your thoughts, or that odd concept, 'food for thought'. Come to think of it, you humans place a tremendous emphasis on food.”  
   
“You've never said you like my language before,” he said, surprised. It was rare for Garak to give any sort of compliment unprompted, or when he didn't want something. He narrowed his eyes slightly. “What are you angling for?”  
   
He widened his expressive eyes. “Your paranoia knows no bounds,” he said approvingly. “In this case, you're wrong, but I do admire the thought process.”  
   
“Someone has had a certain influence on me,” Julian said dryly. He dunked a torn piece of bread into the hearty broth of his beef stew.  _In more ways than one,_  he thought, feeling some of his light mood drain away. He thrust that thought aside, refusing to break a promise he made to himself about tonight, that he would enjoy the moments for what they were, divorced from context and devoid of greater meaning. For two weeks, he had treated Garak as nothing more than a friend and acted as though the day in the dressing room was a fluke when they both knew differently. Was that why Garak bantered with him so easily now? He knew that if he waited long enough, Julian would come to him again? That thought alone was enough to send a small tingle through his belly.  
   
Garak continued to eat and allowed him his silence, a rare thing. Conversation and food seemed almost inseparable to the man. Nonetheless, he could feel his eyes on him. He wondered how much of his internal musing showed on his face, if he'd be able to pinpoint the shift in mood and focus. He wondered if this time, Garak might seduce him? Now it was more heat than tingle. He swallowed heavily and took a long drink of synth ale. Partially to fill the silence and partially to try to distract himself from that line of thinking, he asked, “How long ago was Dukat demoted?”  
   
“Oh, not terribly long after he arrived on Cardassia with his daughter,” Garak replied casually.  
   
“That's something I don't fully understand,” he said between bites of stew. “How is it that practically everyone knows that a Cardassian male in the military will have mistresses on his excursions, but as soon as there's actual evidence of it, everyone turns on him? It all seems a bit...hypocritical to me.”  
   
“There was an ancient earth culture known as the Spartans,” Garak said.  
   
“Yes, I'm well aware of that,” Julian replied, resigning himself to yet another convoluted answer that might or might not reveal anything of what he wanted to know.  
   
“Quite a fascinating people,” Garak continued. “As part of a male's training on the way to adulthood, he was deprived of all but the barest of necessities, expected to endure the harsh winter in nothing but a threadbare cloak, and given such meager rations that if he expected to survive, he was forced to steal food.” He took a lengthy pause to take a bite, take a drink, and wipe his mouth. Julian suspected he enjoyed holding his attention like that, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't interrupt him. “If, however, he was caught, he was taken to the steps of the temple and beaten until the flesh of his back hung from him in strips.”  
   
Julian winced at the visceral image the tailor painted. He had never studied that part of Earth's history in depth. He wondered when or why Garak had, knowing that if he asked, Garak was likely to stop telling him anything. He was so stubbornly contrary at times. However, as the silence once more dragged, he asked, “That's it? That's all you're going to say?”  
   
Garak let out an impatient huff of breath. “I would think that's all I needed to say. I went so far as to relate it to an episode from your own people's history.”  
   
“With all due respect, my people aren't Spartans, and we don't have much in common with them.”  
   
Garak widened his eyes again. “I'll say,” he murmured.  
   
Julian frowned. “All right. So what you're saying is that it's not the act that's frowned upon nearly as much as getting caught?” At Garak's expectant look, he knew he was supposed to take it further than that. “Getting caught, or...allowing evidence of the indiscretion to surface...shows a lack of subtlety and decorum, thereby insulting the foundations upon which your society is built and proving the man unworthy of his family.” Garak had started to smile when Julian added, “But I don't see what that has to do with the Spartans.”  
   
The smile instantly turned to a displeased frown. “I don't know why I bother,” he said with a mock look of long suffering. “I've told you more than enough about our society for you to make the connection if you'd just think.”  
   
“Survival,” he said suddenly. “Practically everything your people do or say boils down to that at the most fundamental level, so a blunder of that magnitude made off world and brought back would show that the individual is dangerously reckless and can't be trusted to look after his own. The Spartans would have frowned on a boy incapable of taking care of himself without getting caught. He'd be not only a danger to himself but possibly his entire unit.”  
   
This time the smile blossomed without reserve.  _I could almost die for that smile,_  he thought. It was one he almost never saw, certainly not since he split from the tailor what seemed a lifetime ago. “I wish you'd do that more often,” he found himself saying aloud.  
   
“Do what?” Garak asked, the expression already nothing but a memory.  
   
“Smile that way. You have no idea what it does for your face,” he said.  
   
A faint shadow passed over the Cardassian's expression, so fleeting Julian wasn't completely certain he had seen it. “I'll keep that in mind,” he said smoothly.  
   
He wished that he could ask him to tell him about that shadow, whatever thought might have prompted it. They weren't that kind of together, though. He sensed it would be a violation of the unspoken rules. As they finished their companionable meal, he came to the realization that if he wanted anything to happen between them that night, he was going to have to initiate it.  
   
He waited until they were cleaning up to make his move, a touch to a strong, gray hand as they both reached for the same dish, a look, a kiss. Garak yielded to him readily, but it was the way sand or water might yield, pliant yet impossible to hold in a tight grasp. He knew without being told that although he had full access to that amazing body that was both familiar and alien at once, that was all he had access to. Anything else was as closed as the clothing shop after hours. He pretended it was enough, and he left shortly after it was over. He couldn't bear the way Garak's eyes seemed to lay him open in silent regard once they lay sated and panting in near darkness. It felt too much like accusation.  
   
_Garak  
Private Quarters_  
   
Settling his palm into the cooling spot on his mattress so recently vacated by his lover, Garak half dozed, dreams interweaving with his waking solitude. Some of the faces that emerged in the darkness were welcome, others not so much, victims and colleagues, lovers, friends, classmates, frozen in their youthful state in perpetuity in his mind although he had grown beyond them. He envied their optimism and ambition, their clear eyes, unclouded and unblemished by the doubt that only harsh experience could bring. The hot sun of the Cardassian system created mirages in the badlands that shimmered and dissipated. His bedroom star port reflected his room back at him almost as well as a mirror, the light level just high enough to show him his own curled form on his bed, a leg thrust from beneath the covers bunched at his waist. For one disorienting moment, he saw both equally, and the dream faded away.  
   
He made no attempt to divine meaning in the shards of memory his mind presented to him as it slowly unwound from the day. The fact that it all came to him without the usual accompaniment of a migraine was a welcome change. He stroked his fingers down the mattress lightly then turned onto his back. “Computer, lights off,” he said. His room plummeted into darkness until his eyes adjusted to take in the starlight. He idly wondered when or if Julian would figure out that he alone held the reins to their trysts and what he would do when he did. He wondered if he would understand the significance of it, something he doubted. For all of his intelligence, he was still hopelessly human. Grunting softly to himself, he closed his eyes. Moments later, he was asleep.  
   
_Garak's Clothiers_  
   
A few days later, it was business as usual. He was particularly pleased with the fabric selection coming out of the Deltan system this season and could hardly wait to get his hands on the lighter silks. As it was nearing closing time, he worked to complete his order, not expecting customers. He glanced up to see Major Kira standing just inside the doorway, her expression a strange mixture of apprehension and determination. Lacing his fingers lightly together on his counter top, he offered her a pleasant smile. “Good evening. Is there something I can do for you?”  
   
She strode closer, her black eyes fiercely focused. “I'm going to be blunt,” she said. “Gul Dukat's daughter has come to live on the station. I want you to stay away from her.”  
   
Taken aback, he allowed none of it to show. “Major,” he said with laughter in the word and held up his hands, “I can assure you that I want nothing to do with a Dukat. You needn't worry.”  
   
She looked skeptical. “Please,” she snorted. “I know how you feel about him, and I know how Cardassians operate. His daughter would be a perfect opportunity for you to get at him, and I'm here to tell you now that if you do, if you hurt that girl in any way, I'll toss you out an airlock and work the details out with your government after the fact. I doubt most of them would miss you.”  
   
He should have been annoyed. Instead, it felt good to be viewed as a Cardassian for a change, teeth and all. He favored her with a much sharper smile. “You'd be welcome to try,” he said pointedly. “Is there anything else? A dress for First Minister Shakaar to remove in record time?” The rumors had been making the rounds. He wasn't above using them.  
   
Her lips and jaw tightened, and her eyes flashed. “No. Leave my personal life out of this.”  
   
“Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I have business to finish, and the hour is late.” He let her get halfway out the door before adding, “I should thank you for the warning about the girl.”  
   
She stopped and turned. “What's that supposed to mean?” she asked.  
   
“She may be half Bajoran, but she's half Cardassian, as well, and she has spent a good deal of time with her father.”  
   
“Ziyal is a sweet, kind girl who has been through hell. You watch what you say about her and who you say it to,” she snapped. Whirling on her heel, she left before he could say more.  
   
He turned his attention back to his computer and caught himself smiling. He believed that he might genuinely have reason to be concerned about their new guest. It could make for some very interesting times. He wondered how disturbed the major might be if she learned she just made his day and smiled wider.  
   
_Julian  
The Infirmary_  
   
_So much for getting off on time,_  the doctor thought as Leeta and two Ferengi waiters rushed in carrying an unconscious Rom. “What happened to him?” he asked while two nurses hurried over to help get him settled on a biobed.  
   
Looking furious, Leeta said, “He collapsed in pain. He said his ear has been bothering him.” She pointed to one of the large ears. “That one.”  
   
“All right,” he said, glancing at the trio. “We'll take good care of him. It would be helpful if you gave us some room.” He shot Leeta a look that promised they'd talk later, but for now he needed to focus on his patient. She nodded silent understanding and helped to usher the two curious Ferengi out ahead of her.  
   
Activating the bed and scanners, he watched the information scrolling by on the screen. He frowned, his brow furrowing. This was a serious infection. “Get me...two ampules of thelidrazine,” he said to one of the nurses, “and twenty milligrams of drozanacin.” Addressing the other nurse, he said, “I'll need a telescoping otoscope. I want to get a better look in that ear.”  
   
He took the ampules and squirted the clear contents onto Rom's tongue. The liquid instantly absorbed. He then gave him a hypospray of the drozanacin and took up the scope. After a moment, he frowned again. “There's some sort of...gunk...in here. Flush it out, please.”  
   
Stepping back, he allowed the nurses to do their jobs and took a blood sample for an analysis. “His yellow bodies are very elevated. This is no new infection.” He initiated a full body scan to check for organ or circulatory system damage. “Striations in the lower lobe of the secondary liver,” he said absently for the diagnostic recording.  
   
“Doctor, his ear is clean,” the first nurse to have arrived said.  
   
“Good. I'm going to need 30 milligrams of azropanethol in a deep tissue syringe.” He glanced at the second nurse. “Unfasten his clothing and sterilize his abdominal skin.”  
   
While the two hurried to do his bidding, he returned to the ear and activated the otoscope.  _No wonder he passed out, the poor bastard,_  he thought. He had rarely seen a more inflamed ear canal in any species. He was surprised that the tympanum hadn't yet fully ruptured. Rom had to have been in agony for quite some time now. Retracting the scope, he set it aside and took the syringe. As soon as Rom was prepped, he delivered the injection to offset the damage done to his liver by the raging, now systemic infection.  
   
“Give him a mild sedative,” he said. “I don't want him awakening just yet, not until we can get some of this inflammation under control. If he awakens when I'm not here, I want to be called immediately.”  
   
“Understood, Sir,” both nurses said.  
   
He continued to run some tests on the patient until he was sure there wasn't any more hidden damage. It angered him that anyone would allow himself to get in such a state without ever darkening his door. The man quite literally could have died within just a matter two more days. What was he thinking?  
   
A few hours later, Rom's body responded sufficiently to the medication to allow him to awaken, and a bit after that he had enough strength to sit up and respond to Julian's questions. He still didn't like the look of that ear. He liked even less what he heard, that the infection had been painful for a full three weeks and that Rom's reason for avoiding coming in for an examination was because of his work contract with Quark. Without even thinking, he said, “What you people need is a union.”  
   
Rom looked at him as though he had just suggested that he should surgically remove his lobes. “A what?” the waiter asked.  
   
“You know, a trade guild, a collective bargaining association. A union. Something to keep you from being exploited,” he replied.  
   
“You don't understand,” Rom admonished him. “Ferengi workers don't want to stop the exploitation. We want to find ways to become the exploiters.”  
   
“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “But I don't see you exploiting anybody.” As Rom hurried out, he called after him, “Don't forget! First thing in the morning, I want you back in here so I can check that ear.” He couldn't be sure if he heard him or not, but given Ferengi aural acuity, he believed it likely.  
   
The staff had already long since shifted over to the graveyard shift. It was past time to leave if he wanted the chance to spend any time with Leeta before she would be getting to bed. He keyed a final entry on Rom's chart, said his good nights, and hurried to her quarters so that they could have a meal together, her late supper.  
   
“How's Rom?” she asked the moment he came through the door, her brow furrowed anxiously.  
   
“He'll live,” he said. “Barely. I can't really discuss his case, but I can't believe that Quark would be so careless with his own brother.”  
   
“He doesn't care,” she said tightly, gesturing for him to have a seat at the already set table. “He claims that when he's at the bar, he's not family. He's just another employee.”  
   
They each took their seats and began serving themselves. “Even so, one of you could die in conditions like that. You know, I've tried very hard not to make much of an issue of how much you work, but I'm starting to think it's not such a good idea.”  
   
She frowned at him. “And what exactly is it I'm supposed to do?” she asked.  
   
He blinked at her. “Well...anything. Anything is better than that. Work at one of the kiosks, or...or...the temple. I don't know about employment opportunities around here.”  
   
She pressed her lips together. “Obviously,” she said flatly.  
   
“Leeta, I'm not the enemy here,” he said, holding up his hands. “I'm trying to help you.”  
   
“I don't recall asking for your help,” she retorted, dumping a scoop of food onto her plate hard enough to splatter it slightly.  
   
“You're as bad as Rom,” he said without thinking, instantly regretting it.  
   
“What's wrong with Rom?” she demanded, glaring.  
   
“Look, forget I said anything. I don't want you going to bed on a bad note, OK?”  
   
“Too late,” she said, still glaring. “Go ahead, Julian. I want to hear this. You've never liked him.”  
   
“I've never liked...?” he asked, incredulous. “He's the one who doesn't like me. He hasn't liked me from the start. I have no idea why. To my knowledge, I've never done anything to him.”  
   
“And you just can't stand the thought that somebody doesn't think you’re Prophets sent, can you?” she asked. “Is that it?”  
   
Where was this coming from? Now he was glaring, too. “Fine, you want my honest opinion? Here it is. He's an utter milquetoast. He allows Quark to run roughshod all over him without ever doing anything to stop it. He cringes and wheedles, complains, and sneaks around, more so than most Ferengi I've met, and that says a lot. He seems to be waiting for the universe to drop the bar miraculously into his lap without ever having to do a thing for it. Is it any wonder that Nog wanted to get as far away from him and that bar as he could?”  
   
Leeta had gone pale, her eyes seeming larger and darker than usual because of it. “How easy for you to judge,” she said quietly. “Coming from a life of privilege, in a prestigious medical program where your biggest regret was mistaking some gangly nerve for some stupid fiber, or whatever it is you like to tell every single person you meet. Rom has been on his own with Nog since Nog was a little boy, had his heart broken by Nog's mother, and everything he has done since then has been to put food on their table and to ensure that his son has more choices in his life than Rom ever did and knows above all else that he's loved and it's not his fault his mother left. You have no idea what it's like to be abused and beaten down every day of your life, and while I hope to the Prophets you never find out, I'm extremely disappointed that you can't have a little more empathy for someone who has been.” She stood abruptly from the table and headed toward the bedroom.  
   
“Leeta,” he called after her, half rising from his seat.  
   
“No,” she snapped. “Stay there and eat. I'm not hungry anymore, and I don't want to talk to you right now. I'm too angry.”  
   
He settled back in the chair, his appetite gone, too. However, he knew if he didn't eat, it would just make her angrier. She went through the trouble of preparing the meal and setting the table for him. It wasn't fair, that anger of hers. She had no idea what his life had been like.  _How could she? You've never told her._  That thought just made him more irritated. He wolfed down the food without tasting it. A few moments later, the bedroom door whooshed shut, locking him out. “Marvelous,” he said with dripping sarcasm.  
   
He started clearing the table. As he did so, he thought about what she had said and her seemingly disproportionate fury. What if that hadn't been about Rom at all, or at least if it was about more than just Rom? She had always been very vague when it came to her past, never revealing much more than the fact that her family was killed when she was very young, and she was placed with another family. Obviously, they never adopted her, or she'd have taken a family name. She never even mentioned their names. Did they treat her like Quark treated Rom? Worse? “You're a damned fool is what you are,” he said aloud in disgust.  
   
He was no longer angry with Leeta at all. He felt ashamed, and not just of his reaction to her anger, but of how harshly he judged Rom. There was more than a little truth to her accusation that he took the Ferengi's dislike personally. What if it wasn't all that personal? What if Rom resented what he saw as Julian's advantages? The privileged upbringing Leeta mentioned with such heat? He decided he'd apologize to her the first chance he got, hoping that she wouldn't make him wait too long to see her again.  
   
He returned to his quarters, changed out of his uniform and took a long shower, then dressed in comfortable pajamas and climbed into bed with a PADD to catch up on some of the latest medical publications he saved for sleepless nights. The next morning, he saw Rom as promised, treating him more respectfully than he had in the past. He hoped that Leeta would come by the Infirmary when she awoke, or that she'd answer his hail to meet him for supper once he got off. He had no such luck.  
   
After spending some time in his own quarters after hours, he decided to go to hers. He normally didn't let himself in when she wasn't around; however, he believed the longer she stayed angry the less chance they'd have to get the issue ironed out properly. He changed into the spare pajamas he kept there and settled into bed, determined to stay awake. His sleepless night prior made that more difficult than he anticipated, and he fell asleep long before she was due home. He awoke to the feeling of the bed shaking in utter darkness. “Leeta?” he asked groggily, reaching a hand to the side.  
   
She jerked away from his touch. “Go back to sleep,” she said, her voice choked.  
   
“What? No,” he said, concerned, and reached for her a second time. Her shoulder felt hot to the touch. “What's wrong? Is this about yesterday? Why didn't you awaken me?”  
   
“Don't worry about it,” she said. “It has nothing to do with you.”  
   
“I'm really, really sorry. I was completely out of line. Please, talk to me. I can tell you're upset.”  
   
“Upset?” she asked, her voice cracking. “I'm ruined is what I am. I have...no idea...what I'm going to do.”  
   
“Hey,” he said, reaching to pull her into his embrace. She reluctantly allowed him to turn her. He felt hot tears on his chest, wetting the pajamas top. “What happened?”  
   
“Quark cut my pay,” she said on a shuddering exhale. He felt her jerk with a suppressed sob.  
   
“What? Why?” Concern turned to anger in the blink of an eye.  
   
“The Bajoran Time of Cleansing has cut into his profits. It's not just me. It's everybody he's docking.”  
   
Her efforts to control herself made him feel that much worse for her. “It's OK to cry,” he said softly.  
   
“Yeah, sure,” she said, bitterness creeping into her voice. “I can just lie here and cry. That'll pay the rent.”  
   
“Leeta, if you need to borrow some money to pay rent...”  
   
“No!” she said with such vehemence it took him completely by surprise. She sat up and pushed the blanket off, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Computer, lights.” The room flooded suddenly with bright light, leaving Julian squinting and blinking back spots. “I'm sorry,” she said, wiping swiftly at her face with the back of a hand. “I didn't mean to snap at you like that. I know you're trying to help, but there's no way I'm going to borrow money from you, or anyone else for that matter.”  
   
“If it would make you feel better, I could insist that you pay me back,” he said, sitting up, too.  
   
“I said no,” she said, a thread of steel under the usually soft tones. “I'll figure out something.” Sniffling once, she stood and headed into the sitting room.  
   
Feeling helpless, he pushed up from the bed and followed. “Could you...could you at least tell me why you're so dead set against letting me help you?”  
   
He didn't like the deep hurt he saw in her eyes, an old hurt from the look of it, partially veiled behind unshed tears. “I made a vow to myself some time ago,” she said softly, “that I would never be beholden to anyone for anything again.”  
   
“Does this have something to do with the family that took you in?” he asked hesitantly.  
   
Her lips trembled slightly. “I love you very much,” she said, “but don't go there.”  
   
Being shut out stung. He recognized the blatant hypocrisy in that as he felt it. It didn't change anything.  
   
“I love you, too,” he said. “What can I do?”  
   
“The fact that you want to do something means more than you can know,” she said. “You're going to have to let me handle this. I'd like some time alone now, please.”  
   
He nodded slowly, trying very hard not to take it personally. He had the feeling that there was no one in the galaxy she would accept in her presence at that moment. “I just need to get dressed.”  
   
She nodded and turned away from him, padding barefoot over to the replicator to make herself something. She spoke too low for him to hear the order. He watched her a moment more before heading to the bedroom to get dressed. When he emerged, he found her standing beside the star port and gazing outward, lost in thought.  
   
“I'm leaving now,” he said quietly, feeling awkward standing in the middle of her sitting room with nothing to say or do that would make any difference at all.  
   
She glanced at him and nodded, her gaze softening slightly. “Thank you for understanding.”  
   
He didn't understand, but he had no intention of telling her that. “Of course,” he said instead. “If you need anything, even if it's just to talk, you know where to find me.”  
   
“I do,” she said, nodding and turning back to the port. “Good night.”  
   
“Good night,” he replied, stepping into the corridor and going back to his own quarters. He felt angry with Quark, angrier than he had ever been at the obnoxious Ferengi. Most of all, he was angry with himself for not being able to be open enough with Leeta that she would feel able to be open with him. Somehow, his pretense with Garak felt more honest in that moment. When he reached his quarters, he threw his PADD against the wall and watched it shatter.

**Part II**

_Garak  
Garak's Clothiers_  
   
He had no idea how late it was, and he didn't really care. The shipment of Deltan fabrics had arrived earlier that day. The colors and textures were so impressive that he had started to experiment with them right away and stayed through supper and beyond, peacefully ensconced in his stock room at his work table. His outer doors chimed, and he paused, scissors in hand. Who would approach him after hours? Glancing to the wall chronometer, he did a double take. Quark's would already be closed by now. Had he truly been so focused that he lost all track of time? It had been over two years since that had happened for a good reason. The door chimed again.  
   
Frowning slightly to himself, he palmed the phaser he always kept close, tucked it against the back of his thigh, and approached the entrance. He relaxed when he saw Rom on the other side of the doors. “Computer, open shop doors,” he said. Rom hurried in, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. Not liking the look of that, Garak added, “Close and lock shop doors. Engage opaque mode.” The wide doors slid shut with a loud hiss, the lock clicked, and then the Promenade beyond was shut out completely behind a milky white sheen. “What is it?” he asked. “Is someone after you?”  
   
“No,” Rom said, looking apologetic. “I didn't mean to make you nervous. I just wanted to be sure Brother wasn't watching.”  
   
“It's very late,” he said, not in the mood for foolishness. “This couldn't wait until morning?”  
   
“Uh, not really,” Rom said.  
   
Sighing inwardly and reminding himself to be patient, he gestured Rom toward the back. “All right,” he said. “You may as well have some tea with me while you're here. How are you feeling, by the way? I heard about what happened to you.”  
   
“I'm better,” he said. “Doctor Bashir fixed me up. Instead of tea, could you make it snail juice? Tea will make me jumpy.”  
   
Garak privately thought Rom already looked jumpy. He wasn't sure what difference tea would make. “Of course,” he said and set aside his weapon. He replicated the vile smelling drink and his own preferred tea and passed Rom his mug. Once they were both seated on stools, he looked expectantly at his friend and waited to hear what all of this was about.  
   
Rom took a couple of gulps of his snail juice first. “Have you ever done something you've always been told is wrong, but you know is right?” he asked anxiously.  
   
_A moral question?_  he thought with some surprise.  _He's asking me a moral question?_  He couldn't quite wrap his mind around that at first. “Are you quite certain you feel all right?” he asked.  
   
“No. I feel terrible. My stomach is all in knots. I don't feel like I can get enough air, and it seems like the room might be spinning a little,” the waiter confessed.  
   
Garak set his tea aside. “It sounds as though we ought to get you to the infirmary,” he said, concerned.  
   
Rom shook his head. “No. I'm nervous. More nervous than I've been in my life. More nervous than I was when Nog was taking his pre-entrance exams for Starfleet.”  
   
“That's pretty nervous,” the tailor said, eyes widening.  
   
“You're telling me!” Rom exclaimed and took another gulp from his mug.  
   
_Actually, you're telling me,_  Garak thought,  _painfully slowly._  He reached for his tea again and took a small sip.  
   
“Brother has gone too far,” he said.  
   
He should have known this had something to do with Quark. Garak held up a hand. “If you're about to let slip some dreadful arms deal or something that will get me questioned by Constable Odo or Lieutenant Commander Worf, please stop right there,” he said.  
   
“No, much worse than that,” Rom continued in a rush. “He cut all our pay because of the Time of Cleansing, and he probably won't raise it again even when it's over.”  
   
“I see,” Garak said neutrally. He had long thought that Quark deserved more than a little comeuppance for his treatment of his family and employees, but he had never felt it was his place to say much of anything, to Rom or anyone else about it.  
   
“According to Ferengi law, I'm not supposed to do anything about it,” Rom added dejectedly.  
   
“No,” Garak said agreeably, “I can see how workers' rights have the potential to eat into profits.”  
   
“That's just it,” Rom said. “He's already making a ridiculous profit margin over the rest of us. He's...he's just being greedy.”  
   
It took every ounce of self-control Garak had not to laugh aloud. The complete absurdity of the situation combined with the late hour and Rom's genuine outrage over Ferengi greed was almost too much for him. “What do you have in mind?” he asked, hoping he didn't sound too breathless. He knew Rom would pick up on it much easier than he would.  
   
“Doctor Bashir mentioned...” the Ferengi paused and swallowed audibly. “He mentioned a union.”  
   
Suddenly, it didn't seem so funny anymore. Frowning slightly, Garak leaned toward his friend. “Rom,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “far be it from me to...discourage anyone...from standing up for himself. We Cardassians are known for drawing lines in the sand and making those who cross them pay dearly. In the process, we understand that there's a good chance that we might be the ones to pay.”  
   
Rom nodded slowly. “Go on,” he said.  
   
Garak exhaled softly through his nostrils. “Once a line is drawn, you don't always have the option to erase it. If you're going to do something this drastic, think long and hard about what you have to gain versus what you have to lose. It's my understanding, limited though it may be, that you could lose everything doing something like this, not just now, but forever. Your people's...enforcers...could literally hound you to the far corners of the galaxy and make your life a living hell.” He knew more about what that was like than he cared to reveal.  
   
“True,” Rom said with a thoughtful nod. “But...my life is a living hell now. I almost died because Brother wouldn't give me time to go see the doctor. This time, it's not just me who's suffering. Leeta could lose her quarters, and Frool's back hurts so much sometimes he can barely stand, much less walk. All my life, Brother has found ways to make me miserable. He almost ruined Nog's chance to get into Starfleet Academy. If I hadn't figured out what he did, he would've.”  
   
“I remember that,” Garak said. “I'm not telling you not to do it. I'm telling you to be sure before you make the move. Drawing a line and holding it takes resolve. If you plan on bringing others into it with you, they'll be counting on you the same way your son has for most of his life.”  
   
Rom's blue eyes glinted with a forcefulness Garak had only seen in them twice before, once on Nog's behalf and once on his when he was being kept from Julian by Lisane. “I failed my son too often,” Rom said quietly. “I made him ashamed of me. I don't want to be someone my own son is ashamed of anymore.”  
   
“It sounds to me as though you've made up your mind,” Garak observed.  
   
“I suppose I have,” he said, setting his mug aside and standing. “Thank you, Garak.”  
   
“Don't thank me yet,” the Cardassian cautioned him and walked with him to the doors. He watched him leave with a purpose to his odd, shuffling gait. Smiling very slightly to himself, he decided that at that particular moment he wouldn't want to be in Quark's shoes.  
   
_Julian  
Private Quarters_  
   
Pressing his lips together, Julian eyed the table setting. Was it too elaborate? Maybe the central pillar candle was a bit much. He plucked it out of the mixed greenery and flowers. Now the centerpiece looked a little flat and lopsided. “Damn,” he muttered, setting it back in place. Why couldn't it have been a little shorter? He decided to trim it down himself and was on his way to the back for his spare medkit when his door chimed. Garak was uncharacteristically a half hour early. “Damn,” he said again. He brushed his fingers quickly through his hair, tugged his navy tunic hem and called out, “Enter!”  
   
Garak stepped into the quarters, an eye ridge rising at the sight of the decorated table. “Is this a special occasion?” he asked, offering Julian a small tin of Bolian krellfish, the delicacy wrapped neatly in decorative paper. “Am I under-dressed?”  
   
“No,” he said, taking the tin with a nod and smile of thanks. “And no, you look impeccable as always. I just...well, I realized that I've gotten a little lazy when I've invited you over. It doesn't have to be a special occasion for things to look nice.”  
   
“I've often thought the same,” Garak said approvingly.  
   
“You're early,” he said as he sat the gift aside and stepped toward the replicator.  
   
“Am I?” the tailor asked innocently.  
   
Julian glanced over his shoulder and snorted softly. “I can only assume that you wanted to catch me off guard.”  
   
“That is one interpretation, isn't it?” he replied mildly as he moved to take a seat. “Don't mind me. I won't get in your way.”  
   
Snorting another half laugh, he began replicating the meal and taking the dishes over to the table. “You'll never guess what happened today.”  
   
“Rom started a union,” Garak said.  
   
“You know, I am bound and determined one day to get my hands on a piece of news or gossip before you do,” he said with mock exasperation. “How did you hear about it?”  
   
“I have my ways,” the tailor said smoothly. “I'm assuming Leeta told you?”  
   
“Yes, well...and Rom. He came to ask me and the Chief for advice.”  
   
“He came to the Chief as well?” Garak asked, glancing at him in surprise.  
   
_Ha!_  He thought triumphantly.  _At least one piece of the puzzle he doesn't have._  “Not specifically, no. Miles was in the infirmary today, and apparently he knows a lot about the issue. One of his ancestors was in a famous labor dispute in the States.”  
   
“I trust he's not ill?” Garak asked with just a little too much enthusiasm.  
   
“You really don't like him, do you?” he asked, setting a final platter on the table and moving to light the candle.  
   
“I'd be willing to say it's entirely mutual, wouldn't you?” Garak asked reasonably. “If you must know, I think he's a bigot.”  
   
“Coming from a Cardassian, who thinks all other races are inferior,” Julian retorted. He was hard pressed to believe that Garak saw no irony in that.  
   
“I never thought you were a bigot, too,” Garak said, standing and turning to face him. “What else are we Cardassians? Cruel, sly, underhanded, brutish, power-mad. Am I missing anything?”  
   
“I didn't mean it that way,” he said, frowning.  
   
“Didn't you? There are very few races that I know of to be true hive minds, the Borg most readily coming to mind. Do you truly assume that after all the years I've spent living among others, not just here but across the galaxy, I have learned nothing? That my way of thinking has gone completely unchanged?”  
   
“It's just the way you talk about my literature and culture in comparison to yours...”  
   
“Please!” Garak scoffed. “You act as though you're handing me something rare on a gold pressed latinum platter and become offended the moment I don't value it the way you think I ought to. Have you ever once, even once, made serious effort to appreciate my people or my culture in their own context without painting it in broad strokes of judgment from your values?”  
   
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't know you saw it that way. If I have done that, it hasn't been intentional.”  
   
“Lack of intent is a flimsy excuse. The effects are the same.”  
   
Julian nodded slowly. “Will you please come sit? If we're going to fight, we may as well do it properly, over food.” He saw some of the tension drain from the Cardassian's posture and inwardly smiled. He had learned a few things about Cardassians over the years, too, at least his Cardassian. Once they were both seated, he continued the conversation. “Are you saying you truly don't see Cardassians as a superior race?”  
   
“I'm saying I'm capable of judging individuals based upon their own merits,” Garak retorted, tucking his napkin carefully into place to protect his rust and silver tunic. “Whenever your Chief O'Brien looks at me, it's painfully obvious that he is seeing an archetypal Cardassian, and not just any archetypal Cardassian, but a Cardassian during wartime. He has never made the slightest effort to get to know me as anything else. Would you please pass the salt?”  
   
Julian complied. “To be fair, Garak, you've never made any effort to get to know him, either.”  
   
“What incentive do I have for that?” he asked, liberally salting his food. “He glares at me with those beady little eyes and gets red blotches on his cheeks.”  
   
Trying not to laugh, the doctor said, “His cheeks are always red.”  
   
“Never redder than when glaring at me,” Garak asserted and fixed Julian with a mockery of the expression he was referencing.  
   
He couldn't help himself. That tipped him over the edge. Tossing his head back, he gave a hearty laugh. “That was actually quite good, which is disturbing given how little the two of you resemble one another.”  
   
“It's all in the eyes,” Garak said primly.  
   
Happily, he seemed content to move on to other subjects. Both were in agreement that while forming the union was the right thing to do, it seemed a risky venture. Julian was surprised to discover how much Garak actually liked Rom. Although he knew the two of them were on friendly terms, he had always assumed that Garak was simply being charitable, or perhaps accepting company he wouldn't otherwise if he wasn't so lonely. More than ever, he realized that he had allowed his sense of rejection to color the way he saw the waiter and wondered if it was too late to try to mend that fence.  
   
“I've been meaning to ask you something, and I keep forgetting,” Julian said during a natural lull. Both of them were almost fully done with their meal, just picking lightly at the plates.  
   
“Oh?”  
   
“Yes. Dukat's daughter, Ziyal, has been asking me questions about you. What do you want me to say?”  
   
“The same thing I always say, Doctor,” Garak said lightly. “Tell her I'm a simple tailor and really not all that interesting.”  
   
“That's what I've been saying,” he said. “I don't think she believes me.”  
   
“Then be more convincing,” the Cardassian said with a pointed smile.  
   
“I'll try. So, did you save room for dessert?”  
   
“I'm afraid not,” he said and pushed back from the table. “Shall we clear it off?”  
   
“Yes, let's,” he agreed. The two of them made quick work of the dishes, and Julian blew out the candle, the scent of soot briefly filling the air. He glanced at Garak who was now heading over to take a seat on his sofa and felt a small twinge of misgiving. Short of trying to pick another fight or actually making a move again, he could think of no other way to pique his interest. Was it possible that Garak didn't want him much but was being accommodating just because it was better than always being alone? Did he think he was doing Julian a favor? It was a disturbing thought. He gave the table a quick wipe down and set the rag aside, moving to take up the other end of the sofa. “We haven't read together in a while,” he said.  
   
“Did you have something specific in mind?” the tailor asked, perking with interest.  
   
“Not really, but it's something we've both enjoyed in the past. I know you like poetry,” he offered.  
   
“Some poetry,” Garak clarified dryly.  
   
“We can stay away from Shakespeare,” Julian said. “There are plenty of poets to choose from. How about...I'll search the archive first, read one to you, then you can pick one you like and read it to me? You can read Cardassian poetry to me if you prefer.”  
   
“You never seem to understand it,” Garak said. “We'll stick to Terran poets. Go ahead.”  
   
“All right,” he said. He reached to his side table and picked up a PADD, hoping that Garak wouldn't be able to tell he already had something specific in mind. He couldn't comfortably express his unease with the one-sidedness of their arrangement, but perhaps he could send him a message this way. “Here's one by Edna St. Vincent Millay called 'Ebb'.  
 

'I know what my heart is like  
Since your love died;  
It is like a hollow ledge  
Holding a little pool  
Left there by the tide,  
A little tepid pool,  
Drying inward from the edge.'”

   
“How very dreary,” Garak said with a shake of his head, leaning over to take the PADD. “Why are so many Terran poems so pitiful and full of woe?”  
   
“I don't know,” he said a little shortly.  
   
“Oh, right. You liked that one,” the Cardassian said with a shake of his head. “What I meant to say, of course, is what a lovely expression of the destitution of broken love.”  
   
“You don't have to be sarcastic. If you don't like it, you don't like it,” he said impatiently. “Will you please choose one now?”  
   
It took Garak much longer, not surprisingly, for he was unfamiliar with most of the poets and poetry from which he was asked to select. To Julian's surprise, he chose Robert Frost. “Lodged,” he said.  
 

“The rain to the wind said,  
'You push and I'll pelt.'  
They so smote the garden bed  
That the flowers actually knelt,  
And lay lodged—though not dead.  
I know how the flowers felt.”

   
He offered the PADD back without further comment. Julian took it but couldn't help but to glance at him. Was he sending him a message the same way he had chosen to do? Without looking back to the PADD, he said, “Emily Dickinson. 'My River'.  
 

'My river runs to thee.  
Blue sea, wilt thou welcome me?  
My river awaits reply.  
Oh! Sea, look graciously.  
I'll fetch thee brooks  
from spotted nooks.  
Say, sea,  
Take me!'”

   
“What are you doing?” Garak asked.  
   
He frowned and set the PADD aside. “I was looking for a way not to be completely humiliated, but it looks as though that plan is a wash. Do you not want this? Would you rather I not...come to you?”  
   
“Have I given any indication of that?” he asked.  
   
“Aside from the fact that you haven't once made a move since our arrangement, despite numerous opportunities? No, you've given no indication of that. You were perfectly agreeable and cooperative several nights ago,” he said, disliking the sarcastic edge in his own voice.  
   
Garak stood and crossed to the star port. “Your problem is you don't know what you want. Whatever you get isn't enough, until suddenly it's too much. The line is never in the same place. In fact I never see it until I've already crossed it. Don't speak to me about humiliation.”  
   
 _I do know what I want. I simply can't have it,_  Julian thought. He knew Garak had a valid point. He stood, too, and moved to stand beside him, their reflections ghostly images against the dark star field, as though neither of them was truly there at all. “Did I humiliate you in the dressing room?” he asked softly. “Do you wish you had told me no?” When Garak didn't answer, he stepped behind him and slid his hands over his shoulders, clasping them loosely and drawing the Cardassian back against him. He breathed lightly over his right neck ridge and caressed his cheek to the side of his head. “You can tell me no now,” he murmured close to his ear.  
   
He met Garak's gaze in the faded reflection, lowered his lids, and lightly lipped the shell of his ear. This was how he wanted it? The only way it would happen? So be it. If Garak could swallow his pride, Julian could, too. He caressed down his arms and tucked his hands beneath them to embrace him across his chest, hands spread flat and warm. He smiled to himself when Garak lifted his hands and caressed his palms over the backs of them, lightly twining fingers and holding him there. He continued to rub his cheek against the side of his head, feeling the ridges of lower ear and jaw and then the very outer edge of an eye ridge against his temple. His light growth of whiskers rasped scale so softly he wondered if he imagined the sound.  
   
Garak turned his face into his slightly, and when he glanced back at the port, he could see the man had his eyes closed. He kissed the long dimple of his cheek, reached up to turn Garak's head more so that he could kiss the corner of his mouth. He tightened his embrace when Garak tried to turn.  _Not yet,_  he thought. His fingertips traced lightly down the long line of throat, from beneath his chin to the hollow. It struck him how much trust that took to allow without so much as a flinch or cracking an eye. He realized that Garak told him these sorts of things all the time, only he was too busy focusing on his many rejections to see where he was accepted.  
   
 _All right,_  he thought, turning him.  _Talk to me..._  He pressed parted lips to parted lips, fit himself against his lover like a puzzle piece, and gave a languid twine of tongue. As their breath mingled and they fell in closer upon one another, he felt the slower rhythm of Garak's heart thrumming powerfully enough for the beat to penetrate both layers of tunics. Nothing about that rhythm spoke of apathy or humoring him. Nothing in the fingers digging deeply into the muscle of his back said that Garak didn't want. Didn't need.  
   
This was the only way he could ever set aside the inconveniences of his genesis. Was Garak listening as closely? He carefully opened the throat of Garak's tunic, just enough to slide his tongue into the teardrop indentation of scale over sternum, his lips finding a perfect fit to their curves at its apex. Garak's breath stirred his hair, harsher now, and a broad hand cupped the back of his head, encouragement and affection both. He felt it as surely as he felt the fingers sifting the curls at his nape.  
   
Taking the tunic open further, he slipped his hands into the warm air between cloth and flesh before it had the chance to dissipate, offered his greater warmth in its place. He knew every ridge and scale as well as he knew himself, but he relished these re-introductions and treated this one as though it were the first. Lightly scraping his thumb nails beneath the lower edges of each pectoral ridge, he gave Garak his mouth again. He could feel the wall of passive acceptance starting to crumble in the way the Cardassian devoured his offering. It wasn't his goal, but he had no intention of rejecting whatever was given, regardless of what he might be asked to pay for it afterward.  
   
Garak unfastened his tunic, and he allowed it, helping him shrug it free, but when it seemed as though the tailor might pause to fold it neatly, he stilled his hands with a firm grip and smiled his approval against his lips when he tossed it aside instead. Those hands knew him, too, so intimately, exactly where and how to touch. He pressed into the palms shamelessly, arching and shifting. The slightly rough skinned touch was electric enough that at times he wondered if it was more than imagination, if there wasn't a physical difference that accounted for it.  
   
He unfastened Garak's belt and held both loose ends, playfully pulling the tailor against him at the waist, went for a third dizzying round of deep kissing. Garak moaned and suddenly wrapped him so tightly in both arms that he could hardly breathe. He knew he had breached another barrier, but he felt no triumph. He dropped the belt and returned the embrace. Was Garak listening? Did he know he strove to meet him there, wherever he was?  
   
“What are you doing to me?” the tailor whispered harshly against his lips.  
   
Julian saw the same fierce eyes he had seen in the mirror that day and stilled in his arms. “Do you want to stop?” he whispered back.  
   
“I ought to,” he murmured more loudly.  
   
“That's not what I asked,” Julian said gently.  
   
“No, I don't want to stop, damn you.”  
   
Julian accepted the harsh kiss that followed, but instead of rising to it and meeting heat with heat, he did as Garak had several nights before, received until he felt the anger ebb. He unfastened the thick tunic the rest of the way and pulled the edges around his sides, once more trapping heat. He loved the slightly convex curve of broad belly scales against his skin and sidled in as closely as he could, tucking his face into the natural indentation formed by a neck ridge and nuzzling until he felt Garak shiver. “You smell good,” he murmured. “You always smell good.”  
   
“Regular baths do wonders,” Garak said a bit breathlessly.  
   
He smiled against his throat and nipped him lightly. It was good to see his humor returning. Whatever crisis point the tailor had just reached seemed to be on the retreat, or he was coming to terms with it. “I'm about to give you an excuse to take another one,” he said, taking the man by the hands and leading him into his bedroom. Somehow they always made do with the narrow bed and made it a big enough world to contain them.  
   
Julian continued to listen, more attentively than ever before. He found care in Garak's control, ardor in the exploration of his pleasure, and as he kissed the closed eyes and allowed him to take him in the most intimate way, chest to chest and with his legs wrapped about the tailor's waist, he believed he understood why this was up to him. The secret lay in the closed eyes. Garak was vulnerable. He held him tighter in the realization.  _I'll take care,_  he thought silently.  _I will, even if you never know._  
   
He gave himself over to the intimacy of the moment, and when it crested, he allowed it to fill and then empty him. He held to Garak when he tried to roll to the side, only relaxing after he was sure his lover would remain atop him. In long strokes, he trailed his fingers to either side of the dorsal ridge, each caress downward with the pattern of scale growth.  
   
“I'm crushing you,” Garak protested quietly.  
   
“Luxuriously,” he affirmed with a lazy smile.  
   
“I should go soon.”  
   
“Soon, yes,” he said agreeably, “but soon isn't now. Just relax.” Perhaps that was easier said than done. This time he allowed his partner to roll to the side, but he kept his hands on him, dropping one down for a languid caress of outer thigh, the strong leg draped over him as much by necessity as convenience. “You make me wish I was a poet. Then I wouldn't have to borrow others' words to bridge the gap that opens between us the times we forget ourselves.” He glanced over, relieved to see that Garak's eyes were open, not shut, and he was singularly focused upon him with almost unnerving intensity. It was better than the alternative.  
   
“Being a poet doesn't help,” Garak said wryly. “Trust me. You'd just find other ways for inadequate appeal.”  
   
He stopped himself on the cusp of taking the statement personally. “Believe me, my dear tailor,” he said, squeezing his thigh lightly, “there is nothing inadequate in your appeal.”  
   
“And still you manage to surprise me at times,” he said, reaching to brush a damp curl from Julian's forehead. A moment later, he rolled to his other side and sat up.  
   
Julian did nothing to prevent him. He watched him walk to the washroom and waited patiently for him to take his shower. Shifting to his back, he propped his head in a hand and considered what he had discovered just by letting go of his agenda for once. Garak was right. He never did consider his cultural concerns divorced from his own judgment. He spent so much time and energy being on guard against the constant barrage of barbs that he never realized that they could only pierce him if he gave them something to hit. This new approach of his had yielded some surprising results. He hoped that he could remember this in more heated moments of rancor.  
   
When Garak returned to the bedroom, he sat up and reached out to him. “Come kiss me good-bye,” he said.  
   
Agreeably, Garak did as he was asked, leaning over to do just that. “Not good-bye,” he corrected him, “but good night.”  
   
He found the correction very encouraging and wisely chose to keep the fact to himself. He was sleepy enough that he was gone to the world by the time his door hissed for Garak to exit. He slept undisturbed until morning.

**Part III**

_The Promenade_  
   
The picket line outside Quark's that morning caused quite a stir. The entire area was abuzz with rumors and gossip. Julian saw Leeta prominently to the fore with Rom and gave her his most encouraging smile. He had to admire the workers for taking a stand, particularly the Ferengi for whom this could be an utter disaster. It quickly became apparent that getting any work done was going to be difficult, especially when Miles showed up, fired up and enthusiastic about the stir.  
   
“C'n you believe it?” the Irishman asked. “A real, honest to goodness strike right here on Deep Space Nine, and it's all because of you.”  
   
“Me?” Julian widened his eyes. “Hardly. You were there when he came in to talk about it. I didn't even remember saying anything to him about unions. I was probably just trying to make him feel better or get him to stop complaining. I was tired that night.”  
   
“Whatever your intentions, it was the right fuel to throw on the right fire at the right time. Look at 'em. I bet we'd get a better look from the second level.”  
   
Nodding, he followed the engineer up the stairs, the two of them positioning themselves with a good view of the striking workers below and the second level entrance. “I wonder why they didn't block this one off, too?” Miles said.  
   
“I would imagine Captain Sisko had something to do with that,” Julian replied. “I don't think it would be legal to allow them to close the bar off entirely.”  
   
“Probably not,” the engineer agreed. “I'm surprised he's allowing as much as he is.”  
   
“It's a fine line to tread, not infringing on their rights or Quark's and not interfering with an alien society. Makes me glad I'm not a captain,” he said. “As upset as I've seen Leeta at Quark at times, I'd be tempted to run him off the station, the bar be damned.”  
   
Miles snorted a chuckle. “So, you'd say you've started feelin' more protective of Leeta lately?”  
   
Julian eyed him warily. “I said no such thing.” To get him off the subject, he pointed at a Tellarite walking past. “What do you think? In, our out?”  
   
“Huh?” Miles asked.  
   
The Tellarite walked into the bar from the upper level. “Oh, too late!” he said, grinning. Miles returned the grin, catching on. They made quite the entertaining game of it until Worf unexpectedly walked inside. Before he could even think to stop him, the engineer started off after him. “Where are you going?” he asked, hurrying to catch up and not liking where this was heading.  
   
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the lower light in the bar. The scene was almost surreal, as what few customers there were all seemed to be served by identical clones of Quark. It distracted him to the point that he tuned out Miles' conversation with Worf to try to see what was actually going on. One of the Quarks rippled with static, a tray he was bearing crashing to the floor in a messy spill of drinks. Another Quark cried out, “Not again!” and hurried over to the site with a large rag.  
   
_Holograms,_  he realized.  _He's using holograms._  He had to give it to the bar owner for ingenuity, however flawed. Worf's roar snapped him back to his true reason for entering the bar. He looked over just in time to see the Klingon lunge at Miles. “Hey!” he snapped, quickly trying to interpose himself between the two before things got ugly. He couldn't tell who did it in the confusion that followed, but the next he knew, he was flying over a table and falling to the floor head first. He managed to get his hands under him at the last minute, taking a grazing blow instead of a full on face plant.  
   
“No fighting in the bar!” Quark bellowed from the first floor. “Security! Security!”  
   
He didn't resist the Bajoran officer who hauled him to his feet, gruffly checked his forehead, and snapped him in holding cuffs. To his relief, neither did Worf or Miles. Odo marched the three of them out of the bar with such a look of disgust that he felt like a misbehaving teenager. It was completely humiliating. The security chief held his tongue until he had them in his office, only then whirling on them. “If I lock the three of you in one holding cell, will you beat one another senseless?” he asked.  
   
“No,” came three muttered replies, not a one of them able to look Odo in the eyes.  
   
“Pity,” Odo said. He shoved them into a cell and removed their cuffs, leaving them without another word.  
   
He knew that if he looked at either one of them, he'd say something he'd regret. Setting his jaw, he stood at parade rest in front of the energy barrier. The other two joined him, and that was how the Captain found them not much later. “I don't believe what I'm seeing,” Sisko said.  
   
Julian could hardly believe it himself, particularly when Miles tried to blame him for his injury. It wasn't serious. His pride was hurt far worse than his head, but it was the principle of the matter. He didn't allow the accusation that he got in the way to stand unchallenged. In the end he wasn't surprised to hear that all three of them would be cooling their heels in the cell together overnight. “I hope you're proud of yourselves,” he said coldly after the captain had left, and he staked his claim to the bunk. Those two idiots could sleep on the floor for all he cared. Miles looked at him and seemed to think better of trying to talk. That suited him just fine. It was going to be a long sixteen hours.  
   
_Garak  
Garak's Clothiers_  
   
Garak had to admit that what was bad for Quark's business had turned quite profitable for him. Deprived of the bar, people were more inclined to shop and gossip. He had only to look outside his door to see the picket line. What he had missed but was told about by several different customers with great glee was the arrest of several Starfleeters by security earlier in the day. The figure varied from two to seven, for reasons that ranged from brawling to vandalism of the bar. He found the latter claim difficult to believe. In nearly every story Worf was implicated, with the other officers and personnel changing with each wild tale.  
   
The only name that truly interested him was Julian's. He left his shop for a late lunch, only to see Leeta beckon quickly to him. He veered her way, greeted Rom cordially, and leaned in close to listen to her whisper. “I heard Julian got hurt,” she said. “Could you find out for me, please? I'm worried, but I can't leave the picket line.”  
   
“I was trying to find that out, myself,” he assured her and squeezed her shoulder. “I'll return when I have news.”  
   
“Thank you, Garak,” she said, smiling and offering him a slip of latinum, “and thanks for not patronizing Quark's Bar.”  
   
He held up a hand palm out, refusing the money. “You don't have to pay me for that.” Several strides down the Promenade had him at the infirmary. Not surprisingly, the nurses were completely mum about the rumored incident. They wouldn't confirm that Julian was injured or that he had been involved in anything, only saying that he wasn't there. Undaunted, he continued on to security. Odo stopped him at the office. “If I were you, I'd stay out of it,” he grated the moment he saw him.  
   
“I have no wish to be involved in anything, I assure you, Constable,” Garak said smoothly. “Leeta is worried about Doctor Bashir. Someone told her that he had been injured. Can you at least tell me if he is all right?”  
   
Odo nodded grudgingly. “He's fine. Anything else, you'll have to ask him in the morning.”  
   
Both of Garak's brow ridges lifted in surprise. He was to be incarcerated for the entire night? That was something he never thought he'd see. He inclined his head respectfully and stepped back out onto the Promenade. Who would have suspected that this strike of Rom's would have such far reaching effects? He was dying to know who started it and how Julian got involved. That would have to wait. He returned to Leeta and told her what little he knew. She didn't seem to take the news that Julian would be held overnight well, her eyes flashing, but she thanked him nonetheless. He took his late lunch and cut it short so that he could be sure to be present for the heavier traffic of customers. He left for his quarters long before the picket line was due to dissipate, his curiosity not enough to override his hunger and fatigue.  
   
_Private Quarters_  
   
He was already in his pajamas when his door chime rang. Throwing on a robe, he asked the computer who was at his door and reluctantly answered when he discovered it was Rom. The waiter seemed more agitated than usual. Garak couldn't be quite sure if the agitation was for a good or bad reason. Ferengi grimaces could sometimes be difficult to read. He didn't let him in far. “I hope you don't intend to make a habit of this,” he said irritably.  
   
“No, but Doctor Bashir and Chief O'Brien are locked up, and Odo won't let me talk to them,” Rom said.  
   
So the rumor about O'Brien was true. It couldn't have happened to a better man, Garak decided, although he still wondered how Julian got tangled up in that mess. “What do you need?”  
   
“Brother tried to bribe me,” he blurted excitedly. “That's good, right?”  
   
“It could be,” Garak conceded. “However, consider your brother. If he's down to offering you money, it also means he's getting desperate. Desperate people sometimes do dangerous things.”  
   
“I'm not afraid,” Rom said staunchly. “I think we're really making progress. I need to call a meeting. Sorry for barging in like this. I just wanted a little advice from someone I trusted. You may not know a lot about strikes like the chief and the doctor, but you've never led me wrong.”  
   
Some of Garak's irritation receded. “Well,” he said a little less crossly, “allow me to offer you cautious congratulations on your progress, then. Remember what I said. Don't get over-confident.”  
   
“Garak,” Rom said, “I don't think I'll ever have that problem. Good night!”  
   
He couldn't argue with him there. “Good night,” he said, smiling faintly at the door for a couple of seconds after the man retreated.  _Interesting times,_  he thought.  _Interesting times indeed.  
   
Julian  
Private Quarters_  
   
The door chimed just as Julian finished zipping his new turtleneck. He took a deep breath and let it out. He had done a lot of thinking during his night of incarceration, and he knew he had a lot of things to explain to Leeta. “Enter,” he said, emerging from his bedroom and facing the door with resolve.  
   
Leeta skip walked over to him and hugged him tightly then stepped back to look at him, both hands to his shoulders. “I'm glad you're all right,” she said. “I was worried about you. I wanted to come see you today in the infirmary, but Rom says it's really important we keep our united front.”  
   
“I'm fine,” he said. “You didn't need to worry. I...there's something I need to talk to you about.”  
   
To his surprise, she kissed him fully on the lips. “You don't have to explain, silly. I know why you were in the bar. I think it's really sweet that you and Miles were trying to keep Worf from crossing the strike line. I'm proud of you for standing up for what you believe in, even though it cost you. You're not in too much trouble, are you?”  
   
He gave a weak smile. “No. No, I'm not.” There was no way he could approach her about Garak when she was looking at him that way. It would just have to wait. “So, are you hungry? And do you want to eat in, or go out?”  
   
She smiled slowly and guided him back toward his sofa with her hands sliding down to his chest. “I'd say...” she said, pushing him down and straddling his lap with a grin, “let's eat...in.”  
   
It wasn't until hours later that they got around to replicating food. By that time, he was ravenous but feeling no urge to complain. Her energy and enthusiasm had been very infectious. Smiling to himself, he loaded up a tray of finger foods and started toward the bedroom with it, still naked and feeling deliciously sated.  
   
“Infirmary to Doctor Bashir,” Nurse Frendel's voice came over the comm.  
   
“Bashir here,” he said. “Go ahead.” Leeta appeared in the bedroom door with a look of concern.  
   
“We need you right away, Doctor. It's Quark. He's dying.”  
   
Leeta hurried forward and took the tray out of his hands, staying out of his way while he rushed into the bedroom to dress in his uniform. “I'm on my way,” he said, hopping on one foot while thrusting a leg through the trousers. He was still zipping up as he said, “Bashir to Ops. I need a direct beam to the infirmary, now.”  
   
The moment he arrived, he got straight to work. “Status report,” he said, moving to run his hands under the disinfecting beam. “What happened?”  
   
“Constable Odo found him being beaten by two Nausicaans. One of his lungs is filling with fluid, and we haven't been able to stop it from collapsing.”  
   
He nodded, barking orders left and right and taking a quick look at the biobed feed. “We're going to need to vent it. I want him fitted with a neural caliper right now. Let's induce a coma before shock finishes him off.”  
   
As he donned his surgeon's uniform, he considered how fortunate it was that Odo found the bar owner when he did. Ferengi weren't the most hearty of species to begin with, and a beating from a Nausicaan was nothing to sneer at. It took close to three hours of careful, painstaking work to extract the rib and bone fragments that had been driven deeply into the lower lobe of his left lung. Only then did he feel comfortable trying to address the damage to his eye socket. Just a little more force, and Quark would've been blinded in one eye and possibly suffered brain damage.  
   
He finished up and straightened his aching back. “All right,” he said, looking at his surgical team. “I feel it's safe to say he's going to make it, but let's not get cocky. Good work, all of you.”  
   
They nodded and dispersed to their various stations, and he retreated to the back to strip back down to his uniform and clean up. Nurse Frendel joined him. “I've had word sent to his brother,” he said. “Is there anyone else we should notify?”  
   
“No,” Julian said. “Let Rom handle that, and needless to say, no visitors right now. If Quark remains stable when we remove the caliper, I'll consider letting Rom see him. Make sure you let me talk to him first if he comes when I'm not in the front. I won't have him upsetting our patient.”  
   
The nurse nodded and left him to finish cleaning up. He felt a twinge of guilt, considering he was the one who put the whole union idea into Rom's head in the first place, but he didn't actually blame himself. Quark had brought this on his own head with his behavior.  
   
Julian checked back in on Quark before retreating to his office to work up his report. A couple of hours later, he believed his patient was stable enough to be awakened. They removed the caliper and monitored him closely. After another twenty minutes or so, Quark's eyelids fluttered, and he opened his eyes. “How are you feeling?” Julian asked.  
   
“Like I've been trampled by Morn on his way to a two for one drink special,” Quark rasped.  
   
Julian smiled wryly. “Well, it's good to see your humor is intact.”  
   
“I'm not joking, Doctor,” Quark said.  
   
“No, I imagine not.” He explained to him all of the damage he had suffered and told him of what he knew of the situation from Odo's end of things. “All in all, you're very lucky to be alive.”  
   
“When can I get out of here?” the Ferengi asked.  
   
Julian stared at him and shook his head. “When I say so, and not a moment before. No visitors, either. What you need to do right now is to rest. I'll check back in on you later to see how you're doing.”  
   
He left the recovery room and heard Rom's raised voice from the entrance lobby. Hurrying down the short hallway, he shooed his people back to their stations. Rom drew himself up to his full height and met Julian's gaze squarely. “Brother and I have unfinished business,” he said.  
   
Julian sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, beckoning Rom back with him to his office. He turned to face him once they had some privacy. “I'll let you see him,” he said, “on one condition. Don't get him agitated. Those Nausicaans nearly killed him. I won't stand by and let you finish the job with stress after operating on him for over three hours. Understood?”  
   
Rom nodded. “I never wanted any of this to happen,” he said flatly, “but I'm not sorry for it.”  
   
Julian nodded slowly. “I understand. Rom, I...admire...what you've done with this. I know it has been difficult, particularly with the Liquidator aboard the station making threats. As a Starfleet officer, I can't officially take sides or weigh in, but off the record...well, I think you should be proud of taking a stand, regardless of how it all turns out.”  
   
The Ferengi eyed him a bit strangely before nodding. “Thank you, Doctor. I never expected to hear that coming from you.”  
   
“I suppose we're all allowed to surprise each other now and then,” he said with a crooked half smile.  
   
“I suppose so,” Rom said. “I'd like to see Brother now.”  
   
“Of course,” Julian said, showing him the way.  
   
_Garak  
Garak's Clothiers_  
   
Garak hummed to himself as he hung some of the newest wares in his window displays. The new fabrics were not only a joy to work with but were proving very popular. He hadn't been so busy with orders since the trouble started with the Dominion. It was past closing time. He should have left over an hour before, but it didn't hurt to put in extra hours now and then. He felt eyes on him from behind and turned to find Rom standing in his doorway, dressed in Bajoran maintenance worker's overalls. He finished arranging the dress he had in hand and stepped away from the display. “I wish you had told me you intended to do this,” he said smiling. “I could've given you a much better fit with that uniform.”  
   
Rom grinned. “I'll get an alteration with my first paycheck,” he said.  
   
“So tell me,” Garak said, beckoning him toward the back for some tea and privacy, “are the rumors true? The strike is settled, the liquidator sent off with some...creative bookkeeping, and the workers' demands met under the table?”  
   
“One of these days, I'm going to figure out your sources,” Rom said. “Yes, it's true. The union is dissolved, but they don't need it anymore.”  
   
“They. So you've cut all ties to the bar?” Garak asked. “Two red leaf teas,” he ordered from the replicator and turned to hand Rom one.  
   
“Yes,” Rom nodded. “I should've done it a long time ago.” He sipped his tea thoughtfully and took the stool Garak pulled out for him. “I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I just always held onto the idea that one day I'd be what's expected of a good Ferengi.”  
   
“And now?” Garak asked, also taking a sip of tea.  
   
“Now I just want to be paid for what I'm good at,” he said. “I'm a very good engineer. My methods may be unorthodox compared to what the Starfleeters or Bajorans are used to, but I can make do with a lot less than what they provide and do a lot more than what they expect.”  
   
“I always did have faith in you,” he said, genuinely happy for the man and privately proud of his progress. It was a long time in coming.  
   
“I know,” Rom said with a nod. “You're one of the first who ever did, and I won't forget that, Garak. I want to tell you something else. Leeta kissed me.”  
   
He was thankful not to have been taking a sip of tea in just that moment. Rom might have wound up wearing it. “She did?”  
   
“Not on the lips. Just on the forehead, but it's a start. She respects me now. You gave me good advice on that, too. If there's ever anything I can do in return, I want you to let me know. I mean it. You've been a good friend. I want to return the favor.”  
   
“My dear man,” Garak said, “you already have, many times over. Now, please don't embarrass me any further with this...startling honesty. It's almost more than I can stomach.”  
   
Rom snickered and stood, offering him the mug back. “All right,” he said. “It's time for me to go gloat a little to Brother, anyway, and let him serve me for a change.”  
   
“That sounds like a marvelous idea,” the tailor said. “When I finish up here, I may even come watch the fireworks.” There were worse ways to spend an evening, he decided as he put the mugs in the recycler. If someone as tradition bound as a Ferengi could become a radical and throw off the shackles of his societal expectations to follow his dreams, who was to say that Garak couldn't practice being radical in his own way and seize contentment when it presented itself, even if only for an evening?  _A marvelous idea, indeed,_  he thought and hurried to finish his displays so that he could do just that. 

**Author's Note:**

> This story covers the episodes “Return to Grace” through “Bar Association.” Some of the dialogue with a few modifications comes from “Bar Association,” but mostly not. The three poems included in the story are attributed accurately within the story itself and are the creative property of their respective estates. This first appeared on LiveJoural on April 14, 2010.


End file.
